And their blood will be on his hands
by Little-Firestar84
Summary: The web was almost complete, and then he would have been free. But some of his friends couldn't have any of it. Now everything had to be postponed, untill he couldn't get his rightful revene on the ones who dared to disobey their master. A different intake on Red John, AU, for Tromana.


**Summary:** The web was almost complete, and then he would have been free. But some of his friends couldn't have any of it. Now everything had to be postponed, untill he couldn't get his rightful revene on the ones who dared to disobey their master. A different intake on Red John, AU, for Tromana.

**Disclaimers**: By writing this, I don't get any money, nor I claim any right upon pre-existing proprieties.

**A/N**: Dedicated to Tromana, who punched me on the head with her insistence that if I thought it could be interesting AND developed into a multichapter, just move and start writing.

* * *

Just few more times, and it would finally be over.

He could already foretaste it, the moment he would finally be free, allowed to simply have a life-the kind of life he had always wanted for himself and his family. Because, despite it all, he was still a family man who cherished the gift he had been given.

The primetime show was just bringing him one step closer to his objective... fame meant getting to know people -powerful people- which meant money and power. In his hands. For him to do as he pleased the most.

The web was almost complete. But just almost. It still needed few minor adjustments here and there, but there was no hurry. He had time. He had all the time in the world. And in the meantime... the world was his own, personal playfield.

And then, he would be free. Everything was going to end. Soon, very soon, so soon he could feel it, could almost touch that instant with his fingertips. He was going to have it all. The Money. The fame. The picture-perfect family. The power. And people ready to follow his orders, to make true his wishes. Powerful people. His loyal friends. Puppets in his own hands. Children. Clay for him to mold as he preferred.

Just pawns, in truth, ready to be sacrificed at the first occasion.

The TV shows, and speaking about none other than himself, and even helping the police out. They were stupid, nothing. They couldn't see that their precious serial killer was right before their eyes. They didn't even believe him when he tried to explain that the smiley was to mock them, show them how small, insignificant they were. And how couldn't it be otherwise? He knew everything there was to know. Could see the smallest details. Had insight on the mind of a serial killer like none other. And did they suspect him? Of course no. They were such idiots to believe he was a psych.

Sweet Lord. The world was full of marks...

And then... that life ended in the blink of an eye, the dream robbed from him.

All it took was a note on his doorstep, addressed to him by one of his "friends"... brother Carter was one of the most loyal among them all, one of the who knew that the "master" was ready to cease to exist. And brother Carter couldn't have any of it. Small, childish, sick and arrogant brother Carter. Patrick Jane should have known better than confiding in him his innermost secrets.

He hid on his persona the real message, and without opening the room, he went into his office, and connected his computer to an old printer, that he quickly hid in the truck of his car, and only after he had left the new message on the door in place of the real one, only after he had red it again and again and again, like it hadn't been written by himself and he had to learn it by heart to understand what truth it hid... he finally did it.

He opened the door, and stared in shock at the butchered bodies of his beloved ones, and yet, in a corner of his mind, he couldn't help but admire the handiwork as he skimmed over their necks, running his fingers through their blood.

It was perfect, it was oh, so perfect... no one could have said the difference... if not for a little something. Or better yet... the lack of it: his signature, a smiley face drawn with the blood of his sacrifice.

Sighing, he went looking for a glove in the immaculate kitchen, and then, he returned to them, kneeling in front of the remains of his beloved family.

He closed his daughter's eyes, and gave her a kiss on the forehead, crying, wetting her porcelain-like skin, already knowing from the dread in her orbs that she had suffered, been scared, seen and felt it all, and then he moved to Angela. He gave her a quick kiss on the lips, and then indulged in running his gloved fingers inside the wound on her throat in a strange kind of pleasure, superior to anything he had ever felt before .

He would have never hurt his baby girl, but Angela... he had lost count of the number of times he had thought about it, that he had almost done it... of how many times he had dreamt of doing it, both asleep and at open eyes...

He left his insignia on the wall, and once discharged the glove, he called 911, doing his best to seem plausible while crying, to make his breakdown more veritable.

He closed the call, and once again alone, he looked one more time at the note-the real one.

He would still be free, would end this game and turn into the man he was always been supposed to be. Maybe not now... but one day...

And meanwhile, he was going to find a way to make Carter pay.

No one could disobey the master and walk free.


End file.
